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This is an anonymous email from a tipster with an axe to grind and should be accorded all of the standard disclaimers. It is also a case in which the framing device happens to be more interesting than the specific complaints! Behold: the tale of the Glamour Mystery Shitter.

For years, the ladies' room of the 16th floor of Glamour has had a
mystery shitter who has left enormous packages in various toilets and
appeared to purposefully not flush. Despite signs ranging from
laminated "please remember to flush" posters and haikus of middling
wit being taped inside each stall, the mystery shitter continues to shit, a
silent, odiferous protest against a work environment that regularly
keeps staffers there past midnight-3 a.m. nights are not unheard of.

Earlier in the summer, an entire department left without any jobs lined
up, simply casting themselves into a middling job market and hoping for
the best. (The production department, hardly the most sensational
department, but one that is essential to getting the magazine out the
door.) Team members from more glamorous departments have done the same
in recent months-beauty, photo-and several staffers have left for jobs
that pay drastically less simply to escape the crumbling edifice caused
by an environment so dysfunctional that job searches take place in the
open and "happy dances" occur whenever someone has decided to leave.
(Only the defecation, it seems, takes place behind closed doors.) And
this week, both of the managing editors announced their departures, for
points unknown.

Condé Nast's ethos has long been to throw as much money at its
self-appointed geniuses, simply trusting that however tyrannical the top
brass, the cash would keep flowing in. But Glamour's numbers are
plunging, with a 17% drop in the first quarter, and little improvement
since. With editor-in-chief Cindi Leive's Midas touch fading, how long
will it be before Condé questions the edit-side wisdom of its biggest
cash cow?